Jeeves and the Bugatti Veyron
by Pjazz
Summary: Bertie Wooster purchases a Bugatti Veyron and falls in love with Mallory Wadkins. Bertie decides to propose marriage if only he can stop antagonising her father.


**Jeeves and the Bugatti Veyron**

**A contemporary Jeeves & Wooster fanfic**

**By Pjazz**

2007

Those who know Bertram Wooster best will tell you he is a man of swift and decisive action; he does not prevaricate - if prevaricate is the word I want - he acts. When he sees something he desires he goes after it with nary a pause for breath._ Carpe diem_. Seize the fish, is his motto.

Thus it was in the case of the Bugatti Veyron. I was passing a car showroom in Mayfair one afternoon and there it was - a car so wondrous, so absolutely splediferous my eyes practically popped out on stalks. In a daze I wandered inside, allowing the salesman's spiel to waft over me like a soothing balm. 1001 horsepower, 4 turbochargers, topspeed 252mph, 0-60 in 2.5 seconds. True, there was a sharp intake of breath when appraised of the cost - a cool million - but I steeled myself to sign on the dotted.

At the Drones Club the Bugatti garnered its fair share of attention - and then some. Chaps I barely knew came up to me with tears in their eyes and wordlessly shook my hand. I knew how they felt. Driving it was akin to a religious experience. It was like the Sistine Chapel on wheels.

Oofy Prosser was especially smitten and sought me out in the bar.

"I say, Bertie, that's a fabulous motor you have."

"Thanks, Oofy. Care for a spin?"

"I was thinking something more permanent. How'd you like to sell it to me?"

"Pshaw!"

"Eh? What does 'pshaw!' mean?"

"It means not ruddy likely. Buy your own Bugatti."

"I would, but there's none to found in the whole country. And there's a waiting list as long as your arm. Come on, Bertie, be a pal. I'll give you a million and a quarter for it."

"Not a chance."

"Million and a quarter. And I'll throw in my Filipino maid. She'll polish anything you place in front of her, if you catch my drift."

"A pox on your Filipino maid!"

"No, no, the penicillin's cleared that right up."

But I stood firm and Offy departed with much gnashing of teeth, Bugatti-less.

Not everyone was so enamoured of my new purchase. Jeeves, for one, was not overly impressed. But then he seldom is. Jeeves still pines for the days of the Hispano-Suiza, double-declutching and men with red flags clearing the way.

Jeeves considered the Bugatti ostentatious, garish, foreign, and deplored the lack of stowage space compared to the Bentley. And it was true, unless you were planning a weekend at a nudist colony, space was at a premium in the boot area. However, I solved this problem with typical Wooster _elan_ - I had Jeeves drive behind me in the Bentley with as many luggage cases as I pleased.

It was this manner in which we embarked on a country house_ soiree_ at the beginning of July that became one of the most hair-raising debacles in the Wooster memoirs. I shudder just thinking about it. And yet it all began so splendidly.

I was attending the Wimbledon tennis championships - tickets to the ladies singles final no less. It was a warm day and I had imbibed freely of the Pimms on offer in the hospitality tents and dozed off in the Royal Box during the match, a dour baseline affair between two muscly East Europeans. Mallory Wadkins, the young lady in the seat next to mine, gave me a firm nudge in the ribs when my snoring grew so loud as to annoy the Duke and Duchess seated a few rows forward. But for her Bertram may well have been slung out on his ear for disturbing the peace.

As a thank you I treated her to spot of grub at Langans and discovered we had friends in common, principably Bobbie Wickham, whom Mallory had been to school with and I daresay fought many a pillow fight in the dorm after lights out. She lived at Wadkins Hall, the family seat, in deepest Wiltshire and invited me down to spend a weekend. I accepted with alacrity for Mallory Wadkins was quite the peachiest girl I had met in absolute yonks. Beautiful, long-legged, funny, intelligent - Roedean, no less - and I could feel the Wooster heart a-yearning. A country house in the middle of summer - what could be more romantic?

Jeeves and I tootled down on the Friday - self in the Bugatti, Jeeves following in the fully laden Bentley. The Bugatti roared through the country lanes like an avenging flame, its throaty exhaust startling man and beast alike. She handled like a dream and I hit apex after apex like Herr Schumacher himself.

Then - disaster. Taking one corner at a fair clip I found slap bang in front of me an old bloke on a bicycle. I swerved he swerved - in the nick of time.

My brakes brought me to a squealing standstill just shy of the hedgerow. The old boy on the bike wasn't so lucky. He careered off the track and over the verge, rapidly descending a short slope which ended with him taking a purler in a muddy pond at the bottom.

I exited the Bugatti toot-sweet and stood at the top of the slope looking for signs of life.

"I say, are you all right down there?"

A sort of human shaped figure, a creature from the black lagoon if you will, emerged from the ooze.

"Eh? Eh? Eh?"

"I said, are you all right?"

"Do I look all right? Do I? Do I? Well, do I?"

I confessed I had seen better.

"Look at the state of my clothes! What the devil do you mean, you lunatic, driving me off the road like that?"

"Awfully sorry. My fault entirely. I'll be happy to pay your dry cleaning bill."

"You're dashed right you'll pay my cleaning bill." the old boy said irately, clambering up the slope toward me. "And you'll buy me a new bike too. That one's ruined"

"Absolutely. Can I drop you anywhere? I'm heading up to Wadkins Hall. Perhaps you know it?"

"Know it! Know it! I should ruddy well say so. I own it. I'm Lord Wadkins."

"Ah."

Not good, of course. This was obviously no run of the mill old bloke out for a peddle on a sunny day, but Mallory's_ pater familias_, old Pop Wadkins himself, my soon to be host for the weekend. And this wasn't the most auspicious of meetings. I mean to say, when Stanley ran into Doctor Livingstone in Africa he didn't deposit the good Doctor in say, the River Zambezi, up to his neck in effluent. No, a quick handshake, tip of the pith helmet and a cheery 'Doctor Livingstone, I presume?' sufficed. All very civilized and chummy. Unlike the present circs.

Things remained strained during the journey to the Hall. I tried not to notice the mud old Pop Wadkins was leaving on my calf-leather seats, while he stared fixedly out the side window doing his level best to ignore me. I attempted a little ice-breaking.

"Nice weather we're having."

"Ha!"

"For the time of year."

"Pah!"

"Good for the flora and fauna."

"Tchah!"

Hardly scintillating convo but I gave it another bash.

"Your daughter Mallory invited me to stay at the hall. That's why I'm heading there myself."

"You?"

"Rather."

"My daughter Mallory invited you to stay?"

"Yes."

"My daughter Mallory?"

"Yes."

"At the hall? For the weekend? You?"

"Absolutely."

"Good lord. Was she intoxicated?"

"No."

"Under the influence of narcotics?"

"I don't think so."

"Had she sustained a blow to the head which temporarily scrambled her senses?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Then what the devil possessed her to do such a damn foolish thing?"

Hardly the thing a chap likes to hear, especially when any matrimonial plans I had would presumably have to be okayed by this ray of sunshine. Still, I had the whole weekend to win the old buzzard over with the famous Wooster charm.

Once parked in the driveway of Wadkins Hall, old Pa Wadkins leapt from the vehicle without so much as a backward glance and strode away no doubt in search of a hot shower,change of clothes and a reviving brandy or three. Jeeves steered the Bentley alongside and I brought him up to speed with events.

"Not the best of beginnings,eh, Jeeves?"

"Indeed, sir. Lord Wadkins wasn't known for his equable temperament in his days as a magistrate and time does not seem to have mellowed him."

"Magistrate, was he? Sent people off to chokey and such like, eh?"

"Yes, sir. He was known as Hanging Wadkins in the days of capital punishment for the sheer number of criminals he sent to the gallows."

"Crikey, Jeeves."

"Yes, sir."

Just then Mallory Wadkins bounded up smiling a greeting and Jeeves melted away as he is apt to do when the 'quality' arrive.

"You're here, Bertie. How simply spiffing. Did you bring your tennis whites?"

"Oh rather."

"Super. Go and get changed and we can have a quick four on the lawn before tea."

I did as instructed. On my return I found the four on the lawn comprised self and Mallory on one side, and Hector Vane and Emily Frobisher on the other. The Frobisher female was a wishy-washy blonde gal-pal of Mallory's, while Vane, a large beefy chap with close-clipped hair, turned out to be Lord Wadkin's secretary.

We were evenly matched and the game turned into one of attrition rather than great skill. They took the first set - the Wooster serve was a trifle rusty - but we leveled matters by seizing the second on a tiebreak. At 5-4 in the third set Mallory pounced on a feeble service return and dispatched it with a winning forehand volley.

"Game, set and match, our side!" exclaimed Mallory in delight. "Bad luck you two. Must have a rematch sometime."

We shook hands at the net. Mallory and the Frobisher bird walked back to the Hall together giggling and discussing the salient points in more detail while Vane and I packed our kit.

"Ho!"

"I'm sorry, did you say something, Vane?"

"I did. I said, Ho!"

Vane loomed over me. Seen at close quarters he seemed to be built along the lines of the Rock of Gibralter. Large. Intimidating. Tectonic, even. And by the look on his grimacing fizzog none too pleased with present company.

"Not quite following you, old chap."

"You think you can just waltz down here from the big city and steal Mallory from me, eh? Faugh!"

"Are you and Mallory an item? She didn't mention you."

"Not as such, no. But I have known her practically from birth. We grew up together. If she is going to end up with anybody it is me, Hector Tiberious Vane."

"Ah."

"And if you stand in my way, Wooster, or whatever your name is, I will crush you like a bug. Do you understand? Like a bug."

And with this he stomped off up to the Hall leaving Bertram shaken not to say stirred.

"Don't let him scare you. He's just a big bully."

This came from Cuthbert Wadkins, Mallory's 10 year old nephew who had ball-boyed for us. He was a curly haired youth in footer shorts and pumps that seemed about 3 sizes too big for his feet.

"Hector Vane talks tough but he's nothing without my grandpa. He clipped me round the ear once for no reason at all. But when I told grandpa he got ticked off something rotten. Grovelled like a baby because he thought he was going to lose his precious job. Just get in my grandpa's good books and you'll be fine."

Sound advice no doubt - just a couple of hours too late. I had a feeling dunking grandpa - Pop Wadkins - into a muddy pond didn't constitute a page in anyones good books.

Cuthbert finished rounding up errant tennis balls and I zipped up my racket covers.

"So, you fancy my Aunt Mallory, do you? Don't blame you. She's a smasher. Aunt Mallory came to my school sports day and all the other chaps were dead jealous. They said she looked just like Angelina Jolie. It's cool to have an aunt who looks like Angelina Jolie."

I concurred. Cuthbert was singularly blessed. My aunts all looked like Attilla the Hun in drag. And whenever they'd attended my school they counseled extra prep for Bertram and don't stint on the corporal punishment.

"I say, is that your Bugatti parked in the courtyard?"

"It certainly is."

"Cool. Hey- if you were to marry Aunt Mallory I'd have a cool aunt and an uncle with a cool car. That'd be like mega cool!"

I was taking a shine to young Cuthbert. Footwear apart, he seemed a sound fellow. I enquired whether he'd be joining us for dinner.

"No. I've got to look after Horace. He's pining."

"Horace?"

"Yes. Horace is my pet rat. He's black with a long tail and doesn't hardly smell at all. I have to feed him and change his bedding or mother goes spare. Be seeing you then. Best of luck with Aunt Mallory."

Cuthbert departed for his rodent domestic duties and I made my way up to the Hall. It had been a long day and I was looking forward to donning the old nosebag.

**D**inner was a fairly close knit affair - just Mallory, Pop Wadkins, the Vane menace and self. Apparently Lady Wadkins, Mallory's mother, had done a runner a few years ago and was now living in Monte Carlo with her yoga instructor.

It has to be said I've known matier gatherings. The atmosphere was somewhat chilly. Pop Wadkins shuddered with evident distaste every time he glimpsed me, while Hector Vane glared malevolently across the condiments. Mostly I kept my head down and concentrated on shoveling the foodstuffs down the Wooster gullet as quickly as poss.

One thing did strike me as peculiar. Each time Pop Wadkins voiced an opinion on something, anything, Hector vane would nod his head and say primly: 'Well said, your lordship. Most sagacious'.

Pop Wadkins: "The trouble with foreigners is most of 'em look like they could do with a good hot bath."

Vane: "Well said, your lordship. Most sagacious."

Pop Wadkins: "Young hooligans today need a touch of the birch. A sound thrashing never did anyone any harm."

Vane: "Well said, your lordship. Most sagacious."

Pop Wadkins: "Young women today should spend less time gallivanting off to the city, and more dedicated to home and hearth."

Vane: "Well said, your lordship. Most sagacious."

As odious a piece of crawling as I had heard in all my puff. And I wasn't the only one offended.

"Oh poo," said Mallory finally.

"You said something, dearest?"

"Yes, Daddy. I said poo."

"Poo?"

"Yes. You're an old fuddy duddy. If it were up to you I'd be stuck in this place all day dressed in crinolines and a chastity belt."

"And what's wrong with that? Perhaps then you wouldn't bring unsavoury characters back to the hall," Pop Wadkins retorted with a pointed nod in my direction.

"Well said, your lordship. Most sagacious."

"Poo."

"Again with the poo? Really, Mallory, is this how you learned to converse at Roedean?"

"But if I was stuck here I would never have met darling Bertie. Isn't he yummy?"

Mallory gave me a peck on the cheek. I smiled wanly.

Pop Wadkins winced.

"Yummy is hardly a word I would ascribe the fellow."

"Bertie drives a Bugatti Veyron. Did you see?"

"Oh I am all too aware of what he drives - if you call it driving. Wooster ruined a perfectly good bicycle and a suit of fine worsted. The man's an utter menace."

"It does 250 mph and cost nearly a million pounds."

"Then some people have more money than sense. Though in Wooster's case tuppence ha'penny would be sufficent."

"Well said, your lordship. Most sagacious."

"Someone give Hector a shove; his needle's stuck."

Vane flushed a deep red and ground his molars in frustration.

"D'you know what car Hector drives, Bertie? A Reliant Robin. A three wheeler. It goes 20 mph. It's quicker to get out and walk!"

"Now, Mallory, you exaggerate. I can easily reach 40, with a decent tailwind. And the race is not always to the swift."

"Not with you driving it isn't."

"At least Hector observes the speed limit," interjected Pop Wadkins. "He doesn't zoom around blind bends like he was racing at Le Mans. You could learn a lot from Hector Vane."

"Yes, how to die of terminal boredom. Come along, Bertie. Let's go."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm taking Bertie out to the rose garden where I intend to snog his face off under the moonlight. Laters, all."

I allowed Mallory to lead me by the hand. Behind us Old Pop Wadkins' face was as red as Vane's. They looked like a couple of boilers primed to explode any second.

**Later** that evening ensconced in the bedroom I had been assigned on the second floor, I let Jeeves apply lip balm to my bruised lips. It was a long time since someone had 'snogged my face off', as Mallory so graphically put it, and I was feeling somewhat tender.

"Jeeves," I said between ministrations, "I think this is it."

"Sir?"

"Love, Jeeves. I think I'm in love with Mallory Wadkins."

"Indeed, sir."

"She is beautiful, intelligent and feisty. I do like a girl with some spunk inside her."

"Quite, sir. However..."

"You have reservations, Jeeves?"

"Well, sir, talking to the Hall staff the opinion is that Miss Wadkins, while a charming young lady, is apt to be somewhat headstrong and manipulative."

"How so?"

"According to her maid, sir, Miss Wadkins may have an ulterior motive for inviting you here. A hidden agenda."

"Rot, Jeeves."

"Very good, sir."

"Utter bilge."

"Very good, sir."

"Complete hogwash. Miss Wadkins motives are as pure as the day is long and that is all there is to it. I intend to pop the question anon."

"Very well, sir. Will you be wearing the plain pyjamas or stripes?"

"Stripes," I said coldly. And I meant it to sting.

_**Tap**__...tap..tap..._

I woke with a start. The clock at my bedside read 3.00am.

_Tap...tap...tap..._

The sound was coming from the door.

"Who's there?"

The door opened a crack and Mallory Wadkins stepped through. She was clad in cream silk pyjamas, her long dark hair up in pigtails.

"I say, Bertie, d'you want to have some fun?"

Now never let it be said the Woosters are not men of the world. When scantily clad beauties rap on our doors at the dead of night enquiring whether we wish to have fun, we do not look askance or pull the covers up over our head and hope they go away. As Shakespeare put it - _'Now all the youth of England are afire/And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies.'_

"Rather!"

"Good. Then come with me."

"Where are we going?" I asked, pulling on my dressing robe.

"We're going to put a rat in Daddy's bedroom. That'll put the wind up him good and proper. Woman's place is in the home, forsooth!"

"I'm sorry - what?"

"A rat. Look."

Mallory held up a large black rat for my inspection.

"It's my nephew Cuthbert's. His name's Horace. He's perfectly tame. Only Daddy won't know that."

"Mallory, I really don't think--"

"Shush! You'll wake everyone up."

Barefoot we tip-toed along the corridor until we stood outside the master bedroom. Inside I could hear old Pop Wadkins peacefully snoring away. It sounded like a hive of bees sawing logs.

Mallory opened the door and tossed poor Horace the rat inside. We listened agog. After a minute of two the snoring ceased.

"Whaszat? Good lord. Great Scott! RAT! RAT!"

Mallory creased over with silent laughter.

"Oh my gosh! Here he comes! Run, Bertie!"

Mallory sprinted away from the scene of the crime and I moved to follow her. Or tried to. My feet got caught in the loose belt of my robe and I went sprawling.

The door sprang open. An irate Pop Wadkins stood in the doorway gazing down at me.

"YOU!"

"Ah. Hullo," I said, getting shakily to my feet. I gave nonchalance a shot. "Nice evening, what? The moon. The stars. The - er - darkness."

"What the devil d'you think you're playing at?"

That was the nub, or the crux, of the matter as I've heard itJeeves describe it. And I must say I was at a complete loss. I just stood there and gaped, like a fish suddenly deprived of its H2O.

Another door further along the corridor opened and disgorged the considerable bulk of Horace Vane. He was dressed in austere black pyjamas with an eyemask pushed up over his forehead. He resembled a stormtrooper roused from his bivouac on the Eastern Front.

"Your lordship? Is anything amiss? I heard a commotion."

"This imbecile has just inserted a rat into my bed chamber!"

"A rat? Wooster did this?"

"Oh there's no doubt about it.The thing's in there now, doubtless chewing the drapery and spreading the plague."

This seemed a bit harsh on poor old Horace the rat and I was tempted to defend his honour, only to find my own suddenly under suspicion.

"The man must be insane."

"Criminally insane."

"Well, he must be punished."

"Oh severely punished. What d'you have in mind?"

"I could open a window and throw him out?"

"Hmm. The fall would probably kill him."

"Certainly. But it's no more than he deserves."

"Oh quite. But I hate to leave on stain on the parterre."

"We could horsewhip him?"

"Excellent notion! Do you have an horsewhip?"

"Alas, not. Your lordship?"

"No. I don't keep one on the premises. Most remiss of me."

"I have a tennis racket in my room. I could probably administer a sound thrashing with it."

"A tennis racket? Is it a sturdy implement?"

"Most robust. It is the type the pros' use. It's improved my backhand no end."

Now you're possibly wondering what Bertram was doing while these two homocidal loons discussed my fate. And the truth is I was slowly trying to edge away along the corridor, ensuring a decent headstart before making a dash for it. Unfortunately Vane caught me edging and reached out a meaty paw to drag me back.

"No so fast, you."

Just when all seemed lost, Mallory came round the corner. She feigned surprise at seeing us there.

"Daddy? Hector? Bertie? What are you all doing up at this time of night?"

"This confounded idiot wantonly inserted a rat into my bedroom!"

"A rat?"

"Correct."

"Bertie?"

"Correct again."

"What colour rat was it?"

"An extremely large black one, if you must know."

"Ah. It sounds like Horace."

"Horace?"

"Cuthbert's pet rat, Horace. I see what must have happened. Cuthbert escaped from his cage in the basement and took refuge in your bedroom."

"Doh, of all the-- Are you seriously suggesting, Mallory, that this rat escaped from its cage, climbed two flights of stairs, entered my room by twisting the doorknob then closed it again behind itself?"

"Oh yes. Rat's are very intelligent creatures."

" This one would have to be a veritable Einstein of its species, would it not? Hey - where are you going?"

Mallory ducked into her father's room. A few moments later she was back, cradling a large black rat in her arms.

"Here you are. Daddy, Horace. Horace, Daddy."

"Pleased to meet--" Pop Wadkins began automatically before realising he was addressing a rat.

"Isn't he adorable? Look at his widdle whiskers."

"I have no desire to look at its widdle - er, its whiskers."

"Did you know rats perspire through their tails? It's a proven fact."

"Doh! Perspiring rats, egad! Get that filthy creature away from me."

"Very well. I'll pop Horace back in his cage. Come on, Bertie, I'll walk you back to your room."

Outside my bedroom Mallory paused and gave me a quick kiss on the lips.

"'night, Bertie. Thanks for not ratting on me. Oh! Did you hear that? Rat on me. I made a joke."

And her girlish laughter followed her all the way down the stairs.

**I confess **I have had better nights' sleep. I tossed. I turned. What little sleep I managed was haunted by dreams of Pop Wadkins and Hector Vane, dressed as Roundheads, hanging me from a makeshift gallows on the parterre with a noose fashioned from my dressing robe belt.

Breakfast was hardly an improvement. Pop Wadkins and the Vane blister glared at me over the cornflakes with open hostility. I was all for knocking it on the head and returning to my room for a restorative gasper when Mallory breezed in, wearing a summery dress and a large floppy hat.

"Morning all. Isn't it a beautiful day?"

The three of us murmured a reluctant agreement. I had a feeling old Pop Wadkins hadn't had much kip either, judging by the dark bags under his eyes. I suppose when a rat enters your bedchamber unexpectedly in the middle of the night some decent shuteye is hard to come by.

I could imagine him staring at the door, wide awake and alert to the slightest noise that suggested an errant rodent in the offing.

"I say, Mallory, would you care to accompany me into town?" asked Hector Vane. "I need to pick up some business supplies. And a horsewhip."

"Horsewhip? Since when did you keep horses, Hector?"

"Oh I just think every home should have one. A horsewhip, that is."

"Sorry, I can't. I'm having a picnic with Bertie."

"A picnic?"

"Yes."

"With Wooster?"

"Yes, Hector. With Bertie."

"But you never come with me when I suggest a picnic. You always have some excuse. You're suffering from hayfever. You hate cucumber sandwiches. You're allergic to sky. Honestly, Mallory, I think you make up excuses just to avoid my society."

Vane's tone was so forlorn I almost felt sorry for the big gorilla. Mallory, however, affected not to hear and continued blithely.

"We'll take your car, Bertie. Mine's far too small. And old. Why it's practically rusting to pieces around me. And I've no money for repairs. Daddy's so mean with my allowance."

"Now, Mallory, your allowance is perfectly adequate for a young country girl."

"Country girl? Is that how you see me, Daddy? Riding to hounds and toiling the soil."

"No one suggests you soil the toil - er, toil the soil."

"I should jolly well hope not. And you haven't raised my allowance in ages. I can barely afford heating in my tiny London flat. It's almost a dungeon. And in the least fashinable postcode. Honestly, I could die of shame. I have no idea where my next pair of Manolo's is going to come from."

"Manolo's?"

"Shoes, daddy, shoes."

"Ah, well if it's new footwear you require I will happily buy you a new pair of galoshes."

"Galoshes? Wellingtons? Bally gumboots? Oh I shall look very fashinable waltzing down Kennsington High Street in those. Quite the figure of fun. Come, Bertie, lets leave before Daddy has me kitted out in tweeds and a khaki shooting jacket."

**The** picnic took place in a hay meadow some distance from Wadkins Hall. It was near a stream where dragonflies and kingfishers hovered above the banks while willows gracefully lowered their boughs into the water below. There were wild flowers aplenty and butterflies flitted hither and thither in a most pleasing manner.

The Wadkins Hall cook had provided a splendid repaste and the wine cellar had offered up a chilled bott of Bucks Fizz, not my usual poison but decent enough on a hot day. Indeed so idyllic was the scene I was sorely tempted to propose marriage right there and then.

In fact the words were forming on my lips when the serpent invaded Eden, as it were. Not an actual serpent, of course. I am speaking metaphorically, if metaphorically is the word I want.

A squadron of wasps suddenly flew in from the sou-west and began to strafe the remnants of jam tarts with military precision. Mallory and I fled to the safety of the Bugatti while the wasps used the picnic blanket as an adhoc landing ground.

"Coward!"

"Me? Well, I like that."

"But I'm just a poor weak girly-wirly."

"Hah!"

"Gosh, did you see the size of those jaspers? I swear, one had a stinger as long as my fingers."

The wasps seemed to have settled in for the duration.

"I say, Bertie, can I drive your Bugatti?"

"Be my guest. But what about the picnic paraphenalia?"

"Oh Daddy'll send someone from the Hall to pick them up. C'mon, let's vamos while the vamosing is good."

**The **next hour was spent roaring through the highways and byways of Wiltshire, scattering peasantry and farmyard fowl alike in our wake. Mallory smiled as she drove, laughing aloud as we narrowly missed some sluggish yeoman or dallying poultry. She looked so radiantly beautiful I was again tempted to pop the q. I would have too but for the roar of the engine inches from our ears. Mallory was keeping the revs high and the twin V8's howled like banshees.

Eventually we came to a fairly straight bit of hardtop and there in the distance coming towards us was a chap on a bike. Not just any c. on a b. mind, old Pop Wadkins himself giving his new bicycle a test ride.

"Look. There's Daddy. Let's put the wind up him again, shall we?"

"No, let's n--"

But my feeble demur went unheeded. Mallory gave the Bugatti full throttle, veering across the road with her father dead set in the crosshairs. At the last second we both swerved, Pop Wadkins disappearing over the grassy verge, while the Bugatti arrowed into the hedgerow and wedged firm in the undergrowth.

"Are you all right?"

But Mallory was gone, the door her side wide open. I exited myself expecting to find her checking up on her father. But there was no sign. However, the mystery of the disappearing girl would have to wait for cries of distress were emanating from the opposite side of the road.

"Lord Wadkins? Are you all right?" I said with a nasty feeling of deja vu.

Pop Wadkins had landed in a drainage ditch running the length of the field. He was waist deep in what appeared to be brackish water seasoned with a pungent _soupcon _of cow slurry. Even from the verge it whiffed a good deal. I could only imagine what it must smell like_ in situ,_ as it were.

"What? What? What?"

"I said - are you all right? Do you require assistance?"

"Wooster! I might have known. What the blazes do you mean trying to run me down? I'll have the law on you."

I realised that the Bugatti's dark tinted windows meant he hadn't recognised Mallory behind the wheel. Now didn't seem a particularly apposite time to appraise him of the fact, not that he would've believed me in any case given his strong anti- Bertram bias.

_Toot! Toot!_

I turned round to see a small three-wheeled car draw to a halt. Out of it squeezed the muscular frame of Hector Vane.

"Wooster? What's going on? Has there been an accident?"

"Hector, is that you?"

"Good heavens! Your Lordship, are you all right?"

"Of course I'm not all right! Will people stop asking me if I'm all right. Good God, do you think I'm taking a dip in this foul cesspool for my own selfish pleasure?"

Vane coloured.

"Of course not, sir. I apologise. But what happened here?"

"Wooster is what happened here. The lunatic tried to run me down. I came within a deuce of being roadkill - on my own road!"

"What? Wooster, is this true?"

"Well, you see, the thing is, that is to say--"

"Hector, did you purchase the horsewhip?"

"I did indeed, sir. I have it in the car."

"Capital. Come and fish me out. I intend to thrash Wooster to within an inch of his life, if not closer."

Vane climbed down the slope. "You stay there," he warned me.

Never let it be said Bertram is not alive to possibilities, the moment which taken at the flood leads on to fortune, as I've heard Jeeves refer to it.

I was confronted with two futures- let's call them a) and b) for easy reference.

a) Stay and be horsewhipped.

b) Leg it.

Now any bookmaker worth his salt will tell you b) was the value bet, the one to stake your life savings on. In this company a) was a complete non-starter.

So waiting until Vane was sufficiently distracted hauling Pop Wadkins out of the mire, and with the Bugatti_ hors de combat,_ I legged it as fast as the Wooster lower limbs could propel me.

For the next ten minutes it's quite possible I broke some sort of land speed record so assiduous was I in putting as much acreage between self and the lynch mob. I rounded bends and hedgerows entirely at random - a right, a left, two rights, another left. Finally when a stitch in my side made progress impossible I stopped and took my bearings.

I was lost. Completely lost.

I trudged onward for several more hours, meeting no one bar an aged carthorse put out to pasture and some hares lively desporting themselves in a field. As I plodded on I felt a growing sense of _pique_ toward the county of Wiltshire. Yes, Wiltshire was definitely giving Bertram the pip. To my mind it contained far too many of the following:

1) Pop Wadkins

2) Hector Vane

3) Muddy ponds, for the falling in of

4) Ditches, ditto

5) Endless bally hedgerows

Lose the above I felt and Wiltshire could once again take its rightful place in England's Rich tapestry.

Just as I was beginning to lose the will to live I rounded another bend and there in front of me was Jeeves, standing respectfully to attention next to my trusty Bentley.

"Jeeves!"

"Good evening, sir. I trust I find you well?"

"Jeeves, is that really you? Or are you a mirage?"

"I assure you I am quite real, sir."

"But how did you find me, Jeeves?"

"I happened to overhear Miss Wadkins on the telephone, sir."

"She was worried about me? Rounding up a search party perchance?"

"No, sir. She was laughing. Heartily."

"At some joke or jape?"

"No, sir. She confided to her friend Miss Frobisher that her plan was working perfectly.

Her merriment was directed at your predicament."

"Odd, Jeeves."

"Not really, sir. If you recall I suggested Miss Wadkins had a hidden agenda."

"Jeeves, tell me all."

"Very well, sir. As you may already know Miss Wadkins' sole source of income is the monthly allowance provided by Lord Wadkins."

"Yes, she did mention something along those lines."

"Well, sir, Miss Wadkins finds herself in considerable financial straits. In pursuing a cosmopolitan London lifestyle she is several tens of thousands of pounds in debt."

"Crikey, Jeeves. But what's that to do with me?"

"Everything, sir. Miss Wadkins concocted a plan to alleviate her finanacial woes once and for all. She intended to introduce a suitor who in his actions and general demeanor would so - forgive me, sir - appall his Lordship that he would grant her any wish to be rid of his society."

I was as they say agog. I barely noticed when some itinerant mayflies landed on my neck and began to partake freely of the Wooster haemoglobin.

"Jeveves - I am that bally suitor!"

"Indeed, sir. Might I be so bold as to enquire whether you have yet proposed marriage to Miss Wadkins?"

"No, what with one thing or another I haven't had a chance to pop the jolly old q."

"That is for the best, sir. For once done Miss Wadkins would have had her ultimatum."

"Ultimatum?"

"Yes, sir. She would then have demanded from his Lordship an increased allowance, better living quarters in London and the settlement of all her outstanding debts, or else--"

The scales fell from my eyes. Bertram's blinkers were well and truly off.

"Or else she'd waltz up the aisle with me!"

"Precisely, sir."

"Divvy up or it's Bertram as a son in law."

"Yes, sir."

It was I had to admit an ingenious plan. There was no way old Pop Wadkins was going to invite me to join the bosom of his family. Not under any circs short of my being the last man on earth, and probably not even then given the abundance of available cockroaches. Given a choice of Bertram or Jack the Ripper as a son in law Jack would win every time. Pop Wadkins would probably throw in a set of carving knives as a wedding gift.

"Jeeves, love is dead!"

"Indeed, sir?"

"As a Dodo. I've been played for a fool. A bally stooge. What our American cousins would call a suckeroonie."

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Tell me, do you know a way out of this infernal labyrinth of hedgerows?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Good. Then set a course for the old metropolis. And don't spare the horses."

"Very well, sir. May I enquire what you intend to do about the Bugatti?"

I started. I'd quite forgotten all about the Bugatti. It had been a king among charabancs; an inspired purchase, but now forever tainted by Mallory Wadkins perfidy. It would never feel the same again.

"Might I make a suggestion, sir?"

"Suggest away, Jeeves."

"Mr Prosser is keen to acquire the vehicle. Now might be a propitious time to take him up on his generous offer."

"Of course, Ooffy! I may even make a profit on the deal. Jeeves, How would you like a Fillipino maid to assist with your duties?

"I do not require a maid, Fillipino or otherwise, sir, to fulfil my duties."

"Oh well. Perhaps we could donate her to the Red Cross? How are we off for wrapping paper and string?"

"Sufficient, sir. More than sufficient."

**THE END**

**AUTHORS NOTE**

_This is my eighth contemporary Jeeves & Wooster fanfic. The others can all be found here on site, along with my other scribblings. And also at a Wodehouse fansite called _'Indeed, Sir'_. I'm not affiliated with the site, but my stuff seems to show up there all the same. Thanks, guys._

_Thanks also to _Wikkipedia_ for the_ Bugatti Veyron _specs. _

_All and any reviews or feedback gratefully received._

_Cheers, PJ_


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